


Burns Like Frostbite

by Irony_Rocks



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:34:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irony_Rocks/pseuds/Irony_Rocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I thought our story was epic, you know? You and me. Years, and continents. Lives ruined and blood shed. Epic.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Burns Like Frostbite

* * *

So, the end of the world, huh.

The last place he wanted to be was also the place he needed to be the most. When it came to the last decade or so of his life, the Dollhouse, and especially _her_ , it should've come as no surprise. But he couldn’t be uncaring, not anymore. Maybe he’d gone into the Attic as a man cold as steel and just as unyielding, but after years, what felt like _decades_ in there, he couldn’t shut off his emotions anymore. They bled through the paper-thin walls, and it would be immoral (and, Christ, when did he grow such a goddamn conscience?), but the world was ending and everybody was going to die, and okay, it might not have been his fault but he still felt like it was his fault. He got too used to the feeling in the Attic.

The day he got out, the world was torn in shreds and still, always still, there she was – Adelle DeWitt, the woman who ended the world. His first mistake was that he always let her cloud his emotions. Feelings made things messy, but no, even after she sent him to the Attic, he’d gone from one extreme to another. To _hate_. It was a thin line, so easy to hop-skip-jump over.

He should have told Adelle to go fuck herself, and he did – he just stayed underground anyway.

That was his second mistake.

* * *

“We haven’t had much success in figuring out how the Chinese managed to send out such a wide-spread signal. Topher is dumbstruck over the technology.”

“Jealous he didn’t figure it out himself?” Dominic remarked, snidely.

Adelle sighed, and he could tell his caustic remarks were beginning to wear thin. “Topher isn’t the man you once knew. We’ve all changed.”

Dominic snorted his disdain. “Give me a reason to help any of you.”

“Saving the world isn’t enough?”

“You’ve been feeding people that line for years, and look where it got us. Why should I believe you now?”

“Faith, Mr. Dominic,” Adelle answered tiredly. “When there’s nothing left, it is time for us to turn to faith.”

* * *

That first week, he didn’t sleep much. Couldn’t, not after being under in the Attic for so long.

He caught a few winks here and there, but mostly it was adrenaline and blessed caffeine (it should have been rationed, but fuck it) that kept him up as they huddled the masses down underneath. He was surprised to find Victor and Sierra still standing side-by-side with Adelle, but not half as a surprised as he should have been. Adelle had always managed to charm and ensnare; it was what had made her so good at her job.

It was Boyd’s story that really surprised him. It was Topher who looked like shit, and Whiskey who was still Dr. Saunders (or had become her again, if he understood the story correctly). It was all the others who chose to remain or return to the Dollhouse in their time of need; the stinging irony of returning to the place responsible for starting this hell was something that everybody was aware of, painfully so, but it made little difference, because in the end, the world was on fire so why the hell not? Dominic was, even now, a practical man.

And practically speaking, they were all fucked anyway.

* * *

“Mr. Dominic,” Adelle called. “We need to go up for supplies.”

He liked the way she said _we_ , like it wasn’t obvious she meant all others except herself. It was bitterness that made him smile, like he would’ve back in the day, when he’d been a _yes, ma’am_ and she’d been his boss/mark/crush/cold-blooded-bitch-that-he-admired-even-despite-himself.

“Make a list,” he said. “I’ll go out and get what’s needed.”

“Victor shall want to come along, at least.”

He nodded. “I’ll need at least three more than that for a raiding party.”

She paused, delicately. “I’ll ask for volunteers.”

In the end, Priya volunteered but they had to pull straws for the others.

* * *

“Saddle up, boys and girls,” Victor said, flashing a tight grimace. “Whose gonna be first in the chair to load up?”

“Load up?” Priya repeated. “You can’t really think we’re getting back in that thing.”

“Babe, we’re headed out into a warzone. It wouldn’t hurt us to get an update on some skills—”

“No,” Priya cut in. “God, fuck no. How can you even think about that?”

Dominic was on Priya’s side on this one. “Besides,” he added, “Topher isn’t exactly up to the task of mixing and matching skills.”

“We’ve got a few wedges that’ll help with that,” Victor returned. “C’mon, guys. I’m not saying wipe us clean and imprint us with a new personality. I’m just saying upgrade some skills and knowledge.”

Priya looked sick, turning away.

* * *

During the outing, he went off-book, hunting for civilization.

After the Attic, Dominic had always expected the streets of Los Angeles to completely mirror his nightmare. Clyde version 1.0 had died in his arms, still rambling about the certain future of the world, and by the time he’d made it out of the Attic (again), it was all old hat for Dominic. Others needed time to adjust, but he’d had years of this life, locked away in his head in a shared dream conscious.

But for all his cynicism, that didn't stop Dominic from searching because there must have been some one, something – an agency, maybe? The NSA knew about the tech; they’d known for years. He’d been in on ground zero, but surely there must have been talks and contingency plans and someone in a back room saying, _what if it all goes to shit? What do we do then?_ Someone should have had some sort of back-up plan, right?

Fucking wishful thinking, but turns out, this once, he was right.

The NSA was now a handful of underground bunkers across the states, but it was still up and running. Dominic made contact through an old dead-drop on the corner of Burbank and Colfax. His handler was now a man trapped in a woman’s body – literally. Hopping bodies didn’t decommission an agent; it just changed priorities a little. Reestablish contact with a home base, update the identity, then go back out into the field. Dominic was listed as presumed KIA, but when he appeared at the doors, barely anyone blinked an eye. They just scanned him, asked questions only he knew the answers to, and then he was let through the doors at gunpoint.

It was pure dumb luck, he knew, but the truth was a part of him wondered if everything about his life wasn’t fated, _everything._ From his selection into the NSA to his placement at the Dollhouse to the years he spent in the Attic – all of it some part of a big picture, some screwed up plan. He had a front row seat to the end of the world, and he could’ve stopped it, he tried so goddamn hard. Maybe it was pride or vanity, but there had to be a reason for all of this, right? There had to be a reason for the way things turned out.

There wasn’t, of course. Hoping for anything more was like believing in fairytales. Dominic was a more cynical man than that. That didn’t stop a part of him from wondering, at times. Or maybe he just needed a motive? A reason to put one foot in front of the other when there was no reason to think his path didn’t lead him in a circle right back to the same point.

The NSA, he thought. It was a reason better than most.

* * *

“They’ve got a few strongholds,” he told Adelle, when he returned to the Dollhouse, because – yeah, he still had to drop off supplies because people were counting on it for survival. “Philadelphia, Tucson, the southern tip of Virginia.”

“Tucson,” Adelle repeated, and he knew her far too well. “I still loathe Tucson.”

He grunted, amused and so goddamn tired, because he wasn’t thinking clearly for a second and almost forgot that he hated her. His bones ached and he kept coming back to the idea that, maybe, god, fuck, maybe, civilization wasn’t entirely lost.

The conversation was mercifully quiet for a moment, and they were having this discussion over cups of coffee. Each successive sip was cooler, staler than the last; the coffee had a burnt taste and he would have thrown it away, except there was only a limited supply of coffee left in the world. Even though the gardens in the back could grow coffee beans as well as any other thing he could imagine – the subterranean garden cost Rossum multi-million dollars alone. He tried to savor the burnt, bitter taste because where they had just come from, there hadn’t be much except water purified by stale military-tablets and that one bottle of vodka that Anthony and Priya had shared with him.

“So,” Adelle said eventually, in a faint voice. “What will you do, Mr. Dominic?”

It took him a beat to realize what she was asking him, and then he was remembering why he hated her so damn much.

“My loyalties have always been to the NSA,” he told her, coldly.

She straightened. “Of course.”

* * *

He was sent north, towards Sacramento where more of the NSA supplies lay hidden. They left ammunition there in an underground bunker, as well as canned goods and a few other non-perishable items. The radio chatter was silent the entire trip, almost deadly calm. He usually ditched the tech before too long, but there was always hidden frequencies that the NSA used, ones that were usually vacant of the Signal.

Dominic spent the next six months out there in hell, shuffling supplies across, establishing a better NSA bunker back in Los Angeles, getting a lay of the land, training the newbies, eating, breathing, hunting, killing. There were days when he was bored out of his mind, because even though it was a war and he really didn’t have enough of, well, anything, he certainly wasn’t short on the mundane. And, yet, somewhere along the way, he discovered a thirteen-year-old boy who lost his mother and father in a single day.

“What’s your name?” he asked the boy, that second day.

But the kid refused to give him a straight answer. Instead, he asked if they had ice cream, a joke, of course. Dominic had to repeat his question twice before he got any sort of acknowledgement.

“Does it matter?” the boy returned. “Identities don’t mean shit out here.”

Dominic tossed him a look, half-irritated. “Kid, it’s the _only_ thing that matters.”

After a beat, the answer came. “Thomas.”

* * *

It wasn’t his intention to pick the kid up; it wasn’t in him to handle the normal teenage angst of a boy, much less one that was living through an apocalypse after losing the only family he’d ever known. But intention or not, suddenly he was a pseudo-father figure to a reluctant boy, and neither were happy about the arrangement, but neither broke it either.

It got hairy for a while there. They spent some time near the coastline in San Francisco, during the winter where the temperatures dropped and he took a jacket off a dead body just so the kid would have an outer coat. A week in, and others found him. They didn’t take _no_ for an answer, and even though he tried to explain, to tell them he wasn’t a fucking shepherd leading sheep, apparently his actions spoke louder than his words.

The rifle rested heavy in his hands as he barged forward through the narrow passage. The broken building had a crowded dark hallway, but people quickly made a hole to let him through.

It wasn’t his intention, but fuck, since when had his intentions mattered at all in this life?

* * *

The following radio communication with the NSA went something like this: “Negative, Agent. There is no space for—”

“But these people have nowhere else to go. You’ve got the supplies. God knows I know that, considering I was the one that moved them in. You _can_ keep them, even for a little wh—”

“Negative, Agent. You have your orders. Leave them, and return to the Los Angeles base, ASAP.”

It was, Dominic found, an unacceptable order.

* * *

When he finally came back, Adelle didn’t look surprised.

She’d changed the layout a little, horded more weaponry, dressed down in jeans and a loose t-shirt instead of a five hundred dollar skirt. When he arrived through the elevator shaft, she greeted him with an AK-47 and three other guards. It looked like she’d learned to handle heavy artillery in his time away, better than some of his finest men.

Dominic didn’t move an inch until she lowered the muzzle. “Apologies,” she said, tartly. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“When was the last time you were expecting _anything?_ ”

“Fair point, but next time, do knock louder before coming through. I nearly had a rocket launcher aimed your way.”

“Rocket launcher?”

“We’ve done some interesting shopping since you’ve last been here, Mr. Dominic.”

Thomas finally stepped forward. “Is this her?” he asked Dominic, in something akin to appreciation and bewilderment. “You said she was hardcore, but _damn_.”

She looked curious, but Dominic didn’t address Thomas or Adelle immediately, flushing a little in embarrassment. He should have known the kid wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Instead, he said, “I’ve got people that could use some sanctuary."

Adelle paused, assessing the handful of people behind Thomas. She remained calm and poised, looking to all the world like she was greeting people he’d brought home for supper when in actuality this handful represented an impossible strain on limited resources.

“Well,” she said at length, “bring them in quickly, Mr. Dominic. You’re letting in the fresh air.”

* * *

She reached back in the fridge and brought out a bottle of water. She closed the door with her hip while she twisted off the cap, and he watched her, eying her graying hair and the unpolished look. All the years he’d known her, and he’d never seen a single strand of hair out of place. Now, it looked like all those years playing the Devil’s right hand were catching up with her.

If she felt uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she didn’t show it. “I hear there’s trouble near the Nevada border. You should keep an eye on that when you head back out.”

“There’s trouble everywhere.”

“Still,” she insisted. “Do keep an eye on it.”

He almost laughed. “Is that concern for me?”

“As always, Mr. Dominic,” she returned, but her voice dropped a hair, too soft. “I’d rather have you alive than not.”

His chest went tight and his face cold, the words too familiar and cruel. “Oh, fuck you,” he said without warning. “Save your concern for someone you haven’t fucked over more times than Roger.”

The name brought Adelle to a halt, standing frozen with color flooding to her face.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he spat out, cruelly, “I know about that. I went digging through the archives, put two and two together. You weren’t as neat at covering your tracks as you thought, but hell, I was kinda cheating anyway. I’ve always known the way you cover your lies.”

After a beat, she looked away. “Why are we fighting about this?” she asked, rather tiredly.  “Why are we _always_ fighting?”

She knew the answer to that as well as he did.

The simple question somehow managed to deflate a bit of his anger, anyway. Maybe it was the dejection in her voice? The way she sounded so old and looked it, too, a defeated woman in everything but the will to remain standing. She’d long been stripped of her throne, her power, her questionable morals and that laughable excuse for justification she used on herself and others. Now, she was just a woman that had as miserable a life as he did, and he almost liked the fact that her story ended as catastrophically and alone as his.

“We’re not fighting,” he said eventually, matching her tired tone. ‘Cause, god, it took a fuck-ton of energy to sustain that anger. “We’re just… we’re having a heated exchange.”

“A heated exchange?” she repeated, delicately. “Yes, I suppose there is a difference.”

There wasn’t.

* * *

Sex was just a natural progression from there.

The first time he slept with Adelle, weeks later after that conversation where a tentative truce had been laid down, thorny and unstable, there had been a shift, subtle though it was. It wasn’t anything like he’d imagined. (And he’d imagined it. A lot.) In retrospect, he was setting himself up. This wasn’t near the hundredth time he’d acknowledged he’d been suppressing this, but as skilled as he was at the art of deception, he had never mastered the art of lying to himself. That was the problem: he was a grown man and he could always recognize attraction when he saw it, felt it.

She got the door open to the room and entered first. By the time she finally had it closed again, she twisted around to face him and without entirely knowing who initiated it, he found himself kissing her. He suspected he might have been crazy, but it wasn’t one of those occasions when he was just one step shy of eating a bullet. That was unlike ninety-nine percent of his fantasies.

Their lips fused together, tongues toying angrily, fists in hair; Dominic grabbed her by the shoulders and didn’t so much as steer as push her back. Her shoulder blades met the wall first and he pushed her back against the faded wall of her precious Dollhouse, but then Adelle was the one to push him back, down into a nearby swivel chair, straddling him. His hands gripped the armrests and he took sips of air between frantic kisses.

When she slid off his lap, she got on her knees and for a beat, it didn’t compute, Adelle in that position, a position that on any other woman would have been submissive. It wasn’t on her. And then her fingers were on his belt, the button, the zip of his jeans, and suddenly all of it made a perfect kind sense that Dominic could have laughed. It made sense for her to get on her knees and drag his pants down easily enough. It made sense for her to suck him off in the back corner of some dimly lit room.

It made sense for him to fuck her afterwards, from behind, with her hands pressed flat against the wall without anything else holding her up. He watched as she focused dimly on the pattern of the textured wall when he pushed into her. He bit off her name as Adelle ground back against him, his hips thrusting in a fast fuck that left them both breathless. His fingers eventually circled her waist, continuing to rub against her clit tortuously until she came under his assaults with an orgasm so blinding he had to catch her again or her legs would have crumbled them both to the floor.

“That’s my girl,” he muttered possessively, simply because he could, simply because she wasn’t in a position to argue.

That, too, made a twisted sort of sense.

* * *

They didn’t talk about it. He knew they’d perhaps never _really_ talk about it, but afterwards, sometimes, he rested his hand lower on her back and invaded her space like it was rightfully his.

They didn’t talk about it, except for that one remark she made in their post-coital haze. “Well, that took bloody well long enough.”

Dominic agreed.

* * *

“No, no, I don’t want to rest! I need to focus! I’m close, you don’t realize, I’m only a few keystrokes and hardware connections from figuring out how to reset the signal. I’m sure of it!”

There were times when this new Topher creeped Dominic the fuck out. He’d never admit it out loud, never come close to it, but sometimes Dominic missed the old arrogant, sarcastic, shit-screaming little geek that Topher used to be. Topher would speak now, but always in a way that would come out wrong – in the wrong tone, or with the wrong words, or there’d be the wrong hysterical laugh. It made Dom stop and stare, and most times Topher wouldn’t even notice.

The one time he did, the time Dominic thought about a lot, Topher had regrouped and recovered. “Ain’t like old times, is it, D-dog?”

Dominic never answered, but then again, he didn’t have to.

* * *

He headed back out the following month, and nearly died.

He was somewhere around Neuropolis, the city of minds, formerly Tucson, Arizona. There was smoke billowing from various fires, and a riot was taking place. Dominic knew what was coming next, so when the horde of Butchers started rushing towards him, he was quick to react. He tried to slip by the mob, running passed, but someone threw a Molotov cocktail at the ground and the street erupted into flames. Dominic aimed his sidearm and pulled the trigger. A glass window shattered nearby, providing an escape. He climbed quickly, clambering up rubble and passed broken shards.

Someone in the crowd had a gun, and a decent aim, because halfway across, Dominic took a bullet in the shoulder.

He had two options: the NSA or the Dollhouse.

Because it was closer, he picked the NSA.

* * *

They greeted him with casual indifference.

He wasn’t in much of a shape to protest, nursing his wounds. They patched him up and set him aside like a potted plant, but from the corner Dominic had the opportunity to observe. There were new suits around, and polished shoes and crisp ties had made a return. Dominic didn’t know who was giving orders anymore, but it was clear that the management had changed.

When he had strength in him, he got up and walked around, finding cages with possible actuals or dumbshows they called the wiped personas. He had no idea why they were imprisoned until he turned the corner, and in the hallway came face to face (so to speak) with a former colleague. Clive Ambrose had a different body, one that he had abused because it was at least a hundred and fifty pounds over-weight in an ill-fitted suit.

Clive recognized him off the bat, though he did follow up with a question. “Well, I think it’s Dominic anyway. Is it really you in that body?”

The sickening twist in his gut tightened. “Yeah, Ambrose, it’s me.”

Clive grew cold. “That’s still Mr. Ambrose to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m looking for a suitable candidate to upgrade to.”

The words sent a chill down Dominic’s spine as he watched Ambrose walk away towards the cage of people. He left behind a thousand questions and a building tide of anger. Clive Ambrose had destroyed the world and still came out on top.

What was he doing with NSA resources and facilities?

* * *

It took days for him to confirm it: the NSA had a new purpose and had made alliances with none other than Rossum; in the vestiges of a broken civilization, the company had consolidated power, resources and technology to become one of the emerging global players. First, the Dollhouse. Now, the NSA. Apparently this was his lot in life.

He watched the caged individuals and no one deserved that fate; it was the new form of slavery to a new form of masters, and Dominic wasn’t going to let his hand be sullied by that. Not anymore. He wouldn’t let others suffer imprinting if he could help it. Later that night, he staged a jailbreak. It was messy, and they lost six people but ultimately a handful more made it out. Actuals, dumbshows, whatever – he didn’t care if they were zombies.

He’d die before he’d let this happen again while he did nothing but watch.

He didn’t know it yet, but he’d get his wish.

* * *

When he came back to the Dollhouse, Echo was there.

Seeing her after all this time was nearly a shock, especially since she was still with Ballard, and a part of him, he didn’t know why, had always assumed that Ballard was dead. Apparently there had been developments since Dominic had been away, and talks of some fairytale place called _Safe Haven._

“You’ve got to come with us,” Echo said to him, when they met. One trip in the Attic had undone years of animosity in the Dollhouse, and they greeted each other like old comrades. “It’s in Tucson, near Nueropolis.”

If this were a fairytale, he wasn’t playing the white knight. “Fuck, no. I just came from there. It’s Rossum’s backyard.”

“I know. That’s why it needs to be there. We’ll need to constantly raid supplies and—”

“You’re gonna get everybody killed. Did Adelle agree to this?”

Echo paused briefly, eyes narrowing. “Since when have you two been on a first name basis?”

“Just answer the damn question.”

Echo sighed. “Yes, Mr. Grumpy Pants. She’s agreed to this, though it’s not like I was asking for her permission. It’s the only way to move forward.”

* * *

He passed a very, _very_ pregnant Priya on his way to find Adelle, and Saunders insisted on checking out his wounds but he didn’t have time for that now. He found Adelle in the artificial garden, tending to some strawberries.

“Are you actually thinking of following this dumbshit plan?” he said as greeting.

It was a lackluster reunion, but then again, he knew she wasn’t expecting flowers and candy.

“The decision has been made, Laurence,” she said softly, then rose to her feet tiredly. Her hair was in a sloppy ponytail, more strands loose than those caught in the band, and she looked as if she’d aged twice over since he’d last seen her. “What do you expect us to do? Remain locked down here forever?”

He didn’t have an answer for her, but that didn’t stop him from protesting. “Safe Haven is a pipe dream. It’s too good to be true.”

Adelle flashed him a small sad smile. “Still calling me foolishly optimistic even after all this time, I see.”

"There's a difference between foolish and dangerous, Adelle."

She asked him, just once. “Come with us.”

There was a lengthy pause. “You know I won’t,” he told her, softly.

She sighed. “I do. I was just hoping one of us had learned to change our natures for the better. Wishful thinking, wasn’t it?”

But they had changed. It was just the world had changed more.

* * *

He curled his body around hers, the sheets tangled at their knees. "How's Thomas doing?"

"You can ask for yourself. He's returning tomorrow, and then-"

Then they were leaving. Dominic didn't let her finish the thought, kissing her again.

* * *

The days tolled on.

When Adelle left with the others, Dominic returned to the streets because he didn’t think he had it in him to follow some yellow brick road to Safe Haven. There was no haven for him; Dominic was bred to fight. He’d been trained and conditioned and tortured and imprisoned, and the entire time, the only constant had been his need for a purpose, for a reason. He couldn’t go retire in some little sanctuary; he couldn’t stick his head in the sands and avoid the cruel reality that everybody else had to live with. That wasn’t in him.

Epically stupid, no doubt.

Then again, no one had ever called Dominic the brightest guy, especially among his usual company.

* * *

He had a dream one night about helping Adelle garden in some open field at the back of Safe Haven. They were bent over the dark earth, digging up strawberries side-by-side. She had a wide brim hat and thick garden gloves, and the sun was heavy and bright. Their hands would dig so close to each other that digits would brush. It was a simple dream, nothing but them and the garden and the open space and the sun, but in the dream, he didn't know how, but he could tell: they had been married for years.

"Do you ever think about what our life would have been like if we had never worked for Rossum? For the Dollhouse?"

"I tried once," he told her. "I couldn't imagine it."

She smiled. "Yes, it is hard to imagine, isn't it? A normal life, with a spouse and 2 children and dogs and a white picket-"

"It all works out, I suppose. In the end, just the way it should."

* * *

In the end, he died exactly the same way almost everybody else died.

It wasn’t a physical death, but a moment before the Signal hit, there was panic in the air as people started running. Dominic found that amusing, because as soon as you knew the Signal was coming, it was already too late. If you were underground or more than three hundred feet from tech, you had a chance, a slim one. But Dominic was out in the open, and tech was all around. He was a goner, and unlike the panicking mob around him, the moment before his mind was wiped clean, Dominic just sat down, slowly, and started laughing.

It was a hysterical laugh. He thought of his life, beginning with the NSA, to the Dollhouse, to the people that had shaped his life. He thought about Echo and Sierra and Victor, his comrades, he thought about Thomas who was older now, with a girlfriend. He thought about a woman named Adelle who changed the way he did _everything_ in his life. He’d had his mind wiped clean before, so Dominic knew what was coming.

He was laughing hysterically when his life ended.

It wasn’t a bad way to go out, all things considered.

* * *

  
 **Epilogue**

Turned out, though, it wasn’t the end.

It was just a pause.

He awoke with a dull throb. Groaning, he shifted to discover himself lying face-flat, kissing the dirt of some forest. Disorientation overwhelmed him, and it was like coming back from the Attic all over again, except this time without all the hardwire attached to him. He was out in the middle of a jungle, South American perhaps, someplace unfamiliar, and his hair was longer, near his shoulders, unkempt. His clothes were entirely unfamiliar.

It would only be later, much later, that he’d discover that six years had passed.

It would be even later when he’d find out that it was Topher that'd brought back the world. It was perhaps nothing more than luck that whoever had borrowed Dominic’s body in the interceding six years hadn’t abused it or gotten it killed. It was pure dumb luck, he thought, but the truth was a part of him wondered if everything about his life wasn’t fated, _everything._ He’d always considered himself a cynical man, but that didn’t mean there weren't traces of a dumbshit optimistic bastard somewhere inside of him. It was the only thing that could explain what happened next.

The sun rose up and Dominic headed north, towards one of the only two spots he could think to find Adelle. Safe Haven or the Dollhouse.

He tried the Dollhouse first, and got it in one go.

* * *

“I was wondering if I would ever see you again. I was sure we’d never get to say our proper goodbyes, much less... any of _this._ ”

“C’mon, Adelle, you always knew our story was more epic than that.”

“Indeed, I think I did.”

* * *

  
 _fin_


End file.
